


Sought and Found

by Neyiea



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29615424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: Jerome's been searching for Jeremiah ever since his twin disappeared without a trace.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska
Comments: 13
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, look at me, venturing into new territory, writing something that doesn't involve Bruce aksjkakdka. Although ostensibly this is for me to figure out how to write these two for an established!twinleska bringing Bruce into the mix kinda thing which may or may not happen depending on motivation levels, but I mean... Let's just roll with this and see how it goes.

Jerome slicks his hair back for the dozenth time, too excited to keep still as his eyes leap from screen to screen. 

He’d thought that things had been looking up for him back in Arkham when he’d crossed paths with Richard Sionis and managed to make himself useful and well-liked enough that some of the now-dead man’s outside connections could be used on what Sionis undoubtedly thought of as a whim but was really the most important, not murder related, undertaking of Jerome’s life. He’d gotten scraps of information—nothing too big since Sionis didn’t like him enough to waste too many precious resources on him when someone like Barbara Kean was around to impress—but enough for his own mind to start trying to fill in the gaps.

Where are you? Where are you?

Where are you hiding, Jeremiah?

Where are you hiding, Xander Wilde?

Being broken out of Arkham had made things even better, because information could be accessed at the drop of a hat. Jerome might have been the rising star of the rag-tag group of inmates, but Theo and Tabitha paid more attention to bombshell-Barbara than anyone else—what a surprise—which made it easy enough for Jerome to search for anything about Xander Wilde that he could find without leaving a trace. He didn’t want to seem weak for searching. Didn’t want Theo, who believed that he could be a leader, to think that he’d ruin things just because Jerome maybe didn’t want to slaughter every single living member of his family that was still breathing. 

It was obvious, especially after the failed stunt with setting the cheerleaders aflame, that when the Maniax were out they weren’t being left entirely to their own devices, and so Jerome had sat on his hands instead of slipping away all by himself; waiting, waiting, until finally, finally—

He’d done such a good job at the police station that he’d earned himself a little time away to ‘have some fun’, so long as he didn’t get himself caught. Not a whole day, but long enough.

Long enough to see him again. 

Where are you? Where are you?

_There._

Jerome leaves behind the security booth and the bloody corpse of what was once the lone security guard, dashing up the stairs to the floor where Xander Wilde’s tiny office was located, usually left empty as he reportedly preferred to work from home, wherever that was. He only ever came in on Sunday mornings, when the building was essentially deserted, to drop off and pick up anything that could not be emailed.

Xander Wilde had walked in through the main entrance. Xander Wilde was waiting for the elevator. Jerome didn’t have much time left—maybe an hour—and after that Tabitha might get a little whip-happy, but he’d make due. He would. He’d have to. 

He exits the stairwell, heart racing for reasons other than exertion, and he peers down the hall, ducking behind cover when he sees movement, but refusing—unable—to look away. It had been hard to tell from the grainy, black and white security footage, but there he was, for real.

Jeremiah.

That same hair. Those same eyes. The same stiff, uptight way he tended to walk that had always made Jerome want to push him around a little to loosen him up. His freckles have faded to invisibility from a distance. The glasses and suit are new; they make him look even older, and Jerome doesn’t know how he feels about that. 

Jerome had known, of course, that just as he had grown up without Jeremiah, Jeremiah had grown up without him. Still, it’s strange to glimpse at a face that you last saw eight years ago, one that you used to see every day, and find your eyes unconsciously searching for the things that stayed the same and the things that changed. 

Jeremiah unlocks the door to his office and steps inside.

Jerome springs into action. 

He is quick, and quiet, and he has a knife. The door shuts behind him with a click and before Jeremiah can whirl around Jerome has his arms wrapped around him, the knife pressed against his throat. Jeremiah’s hands scramble, gripping at him, trying to tug him away, but he’d always been more delicate than Jerome had been. He’d never had to learn to survive like Jerome did. Jerome presses his knife a little firmer against Jeremiah’s neck—not to kill him, he wouldn’t kill him; tease and threaten and hurt and cuss at, sure, but never kill—and Jeremiah finally goes obligingly limp.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Jeremiah’s voice is soft, shaking. His entire body is trembling, although he’s obviously trying to hide how scared he is. Jerome wonders if he’ll shake more or less when he figures out who’s behind him. Jerome would stay quiet—draw it out, terrorize him a bit for all the trouble he’d caused—if he had the time to fool around. Instead he licks his lips and swallows dryly, ignoring the fluttering of his heart as he finally opens his mouth. 

“Can’t a guy drop in to visit his favourite brother?”

For a second all is still and silent, and in the next second Jeremiah’s struggles start up again, even more wild than before, trying to get away from Jerome as if his life truly depends on it. He doesn’t call for help, he must realize that there’s no one else left around, no one to hear him scream. He doesn’t say anything at all, just fights as hard as he can to get out of Jerome’s arms before Jerome, not quite able to keep him still enough to rest the knife against him without the threat of actually nicking an artery, has to flip him around and pin him to the wall.

Face to face for the first time in eight years.

Jeremiah’s eyes are wide, fearful, glossy, as they track over Jerome’s features. Maybe he, too, is looking for the things which stayed the same and the things which changed.

He still has a few freckles, faded spots along the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones, probably as good as invisible to anyone who didn’t know to look for them. 

“Jerome,” he finally greets, voice strangled. “You found me.”

“Yeah, Jeremiah.” Jerome leans in closer and Jeremiah shrinks back, pressing himself up against the wall just to get further away from him. Jerome doesn’t even have the knife pressed against him anymore and he’s acting like he’s about to get gutted. “I found you.” Jeremiah breathes quick and shallow through his mouth, almost gasping into the air between them in his panic. “I missed you, brother.” He lifts a hand up to touch Jeremiah’s face, but Jeremiah flinches away before he can, and something in Jerome’s chest stings. “That’s not very nice.” Not nice at all, and here Jerome was, trying to be civil.

“How did you find me?” 

“I don’t want to talk about that.” He’d likely need to find Jeremiah all over again, after this, and any tracks that Jeremiah couldn’t cover up would be worth their weight in gold in the future. “I just wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Jerome leans closer, and Jeremiah has no more space to shrink away from him. Jerome has thought so long of what to say upon their reuniting—grand speeches, hostile promises, painful truths, soft confessions—but everything he’d planned seems to fade away at the simple question. “Do you really have to ask me that?” Anger sparks deeply within him. “Wretched little _liar_ , you left me _behind_. After everything that we went through together, you just say whatever you feel like and then run off to have some fun new life while I’m trapped with the people who believed you over me? They already disliked me, Miah. I already wasn’t _the good one_ , I already was the one who needed _punishment_ instead of _guidance_ , and you made everything even worse for me!” Jerome slams his fist against the wall next to Jeremiah’s head. Jeremiah flinches again. Something in Jerome’s chest stings again. “You turned everyone I ever loved against me.”

And, even worse than that, Jeremiah had been who Jerome loved most of all, and after one single night he was gone without a trace. Vanished as if he’d never existed beyond being a lifelike figment of Jerome’s overactive imagination, except Jeremiah’s lies had lingered and soured whatever was left of Jerome’s relationship with his mother and uncle. That was the only concrete proof that he’d ever really been there. 

“Maybe.” Jeremiah’s voice cracks, and his eyes glimmer with tears. “Maybe everything didn’t happen exactly as I said it did, but you know that it wasn’t all lies. You’d hurt me before, don’t deny that you did.”

“I apologized, though,” Jerome grits out. “I always apologized.”

“You always apologized, but you never actually stopped. Mom used to tell me—”

“She’s dead!” Jerome slams his fist against the wall again, hating her more than ever. What had the wretched bitch said to Jeremiah, her favourite? Had the whore insidiously planted the seeds of doubt herself? “Don’t talk about her!”

Jeremiah’s chest hitches with his panicked breaths, his lips quiver, a tear rolls down his cheek. Jerome is caught between wanting to soothe him and wanting to make him cry harder.

“She was our mother,” Jeremiah croaks. “And you killed her.”

“I did.” Just like he would soon be killing their father. Just like he would someday kill their uncle. “And she deserved it. You know what she was like to me, even if she was different to you. It got even worse once you were gone. She gave up on me because of your lies.” Though she had never really loved him like a mother ought to it had hurt to be cast aside completely. Jerome’s heart had been unguarded, back then, and freshly broken on top of it all.

Jeremiah opens his mouth. Can’t speak. Closes his mouth. Swallows.

“And now you’ve come to kill me,” he finally whispers. “I knew that—I always knew that you—” He cuts himself off and clenches his eyes shut, whether to try and stop more tears from falling or to look away from Jerome, Jerome doesn’t know. 

What he does know is that Jeremiah is _wrong_.

“I hate what you did. I hate how much I missed you.” Jerome lifts a hand up to Jeremiah’s face, and Jeremiah doesn’t see him move to flinch away from him, this time. His eyes snap open and he jolts at the touch, even if it’s as gentle as Jerome can bear to be. “But I’m not going to kill you.”

Jeremiah’s eyes scan his own as if searching for a lie. He’s breathing heavily through his mouth, breaths puffing against Jerome’s lips in a way that makes him nearly dizzy. He used to pin Jeremiah down like this and hover, used to get so deep into his personal space even when Jeremiah wanted to be left alone, used to tease him and laugh with him and push him around and hug him and hold his hand and—

And sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Jeremiah was asleep and Jerome was lonely just from being awake all by himself—

“If you’re not here to kill me, then why did you come?”

“Because I missed you more than I could ever hate you,” Jerome tells him honestly. He leans in even closer, unable to keep himself from shivering as Jeremiah’s ensuing gasp rushes out of his mouth and over Jerome’s like a kiss. “And I love you even more than I missed you.”

Jeremiah sucks in a breath, but Jerome doesn’t give him the opportunity to say anything. 

He forces a firm kiss to Jeremiah’s lips, mouth pressing against him even when Jeremiah’s hands instinctively come up to ward him off, because Jeremiah was always too prim and proper to even let Jerome have something chaste like this. He brings the knife back up to Jeremiah’s neck, though, after the first few pushes against his chest and punches against his shoulders, and Jeremiah’s fingers start to clutch at his shirt instead of trying to force him away. 

Jerome would rather not need the knife, would rather that he was able to cradle Jeremiah’s face in both of his hands to calm him down, but he’ll do what he has to do to get what he wants. 

He missed Jeremiah so much. He loves Jeremiah so much. 

His tongue glides out of his mouth and Jeremiah shudders as it runs along the seam of his lips. Jerome wishes he could know how fast his twin’s heart was racing. Wishes he knew if it was just as quickly as his own, matching beat for beat. His thumb traces a soothing circle against Jeremiah’s warm cheek as he presses the knife just a little bit harder against flesh.

Jeremiah jerks and makes a soft, distressed sound, but his lips finally part and Jerome presses closer, eager to slide inside of him. There had been people, after Jeremiah, for Jerome to practice kissing on, but none of them were Jeremiah. None of them were his other half. None of them mattered. And frankly Jerome didn’t even know about French kissing before he and Jeremiah were separated at the tender age of ten. Didn’t even know what it felt like to curl his own hand around his dick, and couldn’t remember the touch and feel of Jeremiah’s hands clearly enough to fantasize about them instead when he’d finally started getting himself off a few years later.

He traces over Jeremiah’s teeth, swipes against the roof of his mouth, tries to wetly glide along Jeremiah’s tongue, but Jeremiah—who is trembling so sweetly and breathing so hard—seems to be moving his own around so that they don’t come into contact with each other. Jerome wants it, though, wants to play with Jeremiah’s tongue and suck it into his mouth, and bite his lips bloody, and lap at him until Jeremiah finally starts to melt. Jerome wants Jeremiah, he’s always wanted Jeremiah, even before he knew what words like lust and desire meant.

Jerome wants Jeremiah, and he doesn’t have long, but his twin is finally within reach of him after eight long years—almost half of his life thus far—and Jerome is going to make the most of the time that he does have.

And then after, he’ll be a star.

And then after, he’ll find Jeremiah all over again. 

And then after, he’ll have the time to do everything that they’ve missed out on. 

Jerome pulls back, taking in the sight of Jeremiah’s teary eyes and flushed cheeks. His hand slides away from Jeremiah’s cheek to drag into his hair, twisting the strands between his fingers tightly to make sure that Jeremiah won’t turn away from him.

Then he leans in to kiss him again.


	2. Chapter 2

Jeremiah’s mouth is soft and his lips are pliant. He’s not responding at all, as motionless as a statue except for his trembling breaths, but despite everything Jerome is still so endeared towards his twin that he decides to allow Jeremiah a little more time to adjust before Jerome starts urging him to kiss back more forcefully.

This is almost what it had felt like to kiss him as he was sleeping, all those years ago. Those tender moments of adoring silence only occasionally broken by Jeremiah beginning to stir and—terrified of what their mother might do if Jeremiah told her about Jerome kissing him—Jerome started pinching or scratching or biting his brother to make sure that Jeremiah forgot all about the kissing and focused on the more pressing issues at hand. If he’d known what his life would turn out like he would have just kept kissing him whenever Jeremiah woke up. It’s not like anything would have become that much worse for him, but hindsight was 20/20.

He has now, though. Now, and after, and then forever, because the next time he tracks Jeremiah down he won’t have a time limit.

He presses closer, sliding a thigh between Jeremiah’s shaking legs and reveling in the way that Jeremiah jolts and gasps, his hands twisting in Jerome’s shirt almost as if he’s trying to pull Jerome even closer to him, leaving no space between them, until they meld together. Jerome hums under his breath and takes Jeremiah’s bottom lip between his teeth, nipping in a way that’s meant to be playful even if Jeremiah’s reaction to it seems to insinuate that he doesn’t interpret it that way.

“Jerome,” he whispers lowly and Jerome presses kisses to the side of his face, down his jaw, then drags his teeth against the crook of Jeremiah’s neck. “Will you—will you drop the knife?” His words catch, voice going high and brittle, when Jerome presses it just that little bit harder against him. “Please.” His voice cracks. “Please drop the knife.”

Jerome doesn’t answer, just kisses Jeremiah’s mouth again and slides his tongue along the seam until Jeremiah obligingly opens up to him. He seems to catch on to what Jerome wants, because he tentatively begins to move so that Jerome doesn’t feel like he’s kissing someone who’s fast asleep.

The pressure of the knife against him lessens. Jeremiah catches on to that, too.

He’s still shaking and nervous, but he finally starts kissing back; pressing against Jerome’s mouth clumsily, sliding their tongues together shyly. It’s almost cute, how reserved he is. Jerome sighs against him, pleased by the progress, and deepens the kiss even more.

Jeremiah’s fingers clench into his shirt. Jeremiah makes a high, cute, mildly distraught sound. Jeremiah opens his mouth wider and sticks his tongue into Jerome’s mouth like he’s not quite sure what to do with it. It’s okay, though, because Jerome will teach him what he likes best.

It’s almost like they’re picking up where they left off.

Jerome breaks the kiss, heart fluttering sickly-sweet as a thought occurs to him. Jeremiah had spent so much time hiding himself away and not making attachments, so maybe he really didn’t know what to do, maybe it wasn’t just the _incestuous taboo_ that was holding him back from opening his arms and offering his heart and spreading his legs.

“Have you ever been kissed like this, brother?” Jerome croons, mocking and adoring all at once as he tugs on Jeremiah’s hair just a touch too rough, as if to remind him of his place. He’s right where Jerome wants him, because Jerome finally has the power to pin him down and keep him close. “Because you seem a bit green.” Jeremiah flushes darkly and doesn’t immediately answer. Jerome takes the time to press a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, his jaw. “Well? C’mon, let’s catch up. Have any special girls or boys been in your life?”

“Have any been in yours?” Jeremiah shoots back, defensive despite his fear, and Jerome chuckles.

“Special ones? Not really.” Jerome bites Jeremiah’s lips, wanting to leave them swollen long after he’s gone. Jeremiah tries to recoil without success, practically whimpering at the slight pain of Jerome’s teeth digging into him. He sounded almost like this way back when, though he was more vocal about his aching, bitten sore-spots as a child. Always so dramatic whenever it suited him. Jerome vaguely remembers wanting to kiss the stinging skin better as an apology, although he’d never made the offer. “You were always the most special to me, Miah.” He stops biting, for now, and their lips graze together as he stares, unflinching, into Jeremiah’s wary, glassy eyes. “You still are, even though you made my life hell.” He kisses Jeremiah again and Jeremiah is quicker to start kissing back, this time around, perhaps in an effort to make Jerome pull the knife away from him. Perhaps because he knows that accepting Jerome’s love for him is a better option than accepting his due punishment. Either way, he begins to loosen under Jerome’s attentions.

At least until Jerome grinds his cock against Jeremiah’s hip. 

He tenses right up again, knocking his head against the wall in an effort to push himself back even though he has nowhere to go. Jerome can’t help but laugh under his breath at his poor attempt to get away. 

“C’mon, Jeremiah, don’t be like that.” He leans in to nip at the shell of Jeremiah’s ear. “I can’t help it, baby bro, kissing you is such a rush. Take it as a compliment.” He grinds against him again and, just to sweeten things up, finally allows the knife to fully drop away from Jeremiah’s neck before tugging him into yet another kiss. 

Oh, Jeremiah is trembling and anxious, but his mind is still obviously capable of interpreting patterns and weighing pros and cons. Letting Jerome have his way is better than being threatened, evidentially, and his hands actually start to tug Jerome closer as he pants and whines into Jerome’s kisses. It’s starting to feel and sound like he’s finally letting himself want it. Letting himself want Jerome, just like Jerome wants him. 

Jerome slides into the warm, wet cavern of Jeremiah’s welcoming mouth. He flicks the knife shut and tucks it away, and then he drives his now-free hand between them to grab between Jeremiah’s legs.

He lurches and curses, hands freeing themselves from Jerome’s shirt to try and push him away again, but Jerome refuses to be deterred. He wants Jeremiah to _remember_ this. He wants Jeremiah to remember all the things that Jerome did to him. He wants Jeremiah to remember that Jerome made him feel good when Jerome could have rightfully left Jeremiah broken and bleeding and crying for all the pain that he’d caused, willfully or otherwise. Jerome presses against him, rubbing against the slight bulge of Jeremiah’s soft cock, and drags his teeth against Jeremiah’s throat until he finally gives in to the urge to spill at least a little blood.

Jeremiah cries out when Jerome’s teeth firmly dig into his flesh, but the sound only makes Jerome’s heart race faster, makes him bite harder, makes his dick twitch in his pants like he’s a tween about to get his first hand-job. 

“Jerome, you can’t—we’re brothers, you can’t—”

“I can do anything I want.” He firmly kisses the skin that had been broken by his teeth and smirks when he feels Jeremiah jerk. It’s kind of cute, the way he keeps reacting to Jerome as if he’s being shocked by a live-wire. Jerome’s fantasies about fucking him are going to incorporate that from now on, at least until the real thing is available to him whenever he wants and he can act instead of imagine. “I would split you open on my cock and make you cry for real, if I didn’t love you as much as I do.” Jeremiah is lucky that Jerome loves him so much, and he should remember it. Always. “But I can be nice, even when you’re not.”

“This isn’t nice,” Jeremiah _whines_ as he tenses. He’s finally starting to get hard. Jerome wants so badly to see his twin’s bare, blood-flushed dick, he’s wanted it for years. “It’s wro—ahh—” He jolts, unsteadily humping against Jerome’s hand when Jerome continues to devotedly pet at him, determined to get a reaction. He flushes redder than Jerome has ever seen him, mortified with his adorable lack of self-control. “Wrong,” he practically mewls, so much cuter than any boy or girl that Jerome had ever been with. “It’s wrong.”

“It’s obscene,” Jerome tells him, rubbing at his twin’s firming dick. “Which is half the fun, but wrong? We were supposed to be together for everything, Miah, two halves of a whole. Sex is just another part of that.”

“Jerome, please.” He’s squirming so sweetly, eyes brimming with tears that look just about ready to spill over. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can. I know you can.” Jerome kisses him and delves inside of his mouth, his other hand falling away from Jeremiah’s hair to start frantically tugging on his pants. “Just accept it, Jeremiah,” he says against his twin’s kiss-bruised lips, watching a few more tears drip down his face and feeling his own heart clench strangely. He’d thought for so long that he’d take pleasure in making Jeremiah cry, but those thoughts hadn’t also involved kissing him and touching him and loving him. They had just been about hurting him in any way that Jerome’s frantic, spiraling mind could come up with. Jeremiah deserves to be punished for what he did, but seeing him hurting when Jerome is trying so hard to _love_ him the way Jerome has always wanted to is painful. “This was always meant to happen,” he states, trying to be gentler but missing the mark. “Would have happened earlier if you didn’t run away from me.” His nighttime kisses would have turned bolder, eventually, would have turned into touches like this, sooner or later. The first thoughts he’d ever purposefully gotten off to were of kissing Jeremiah awake, pinning him down, and grinding against his hip while Jeremiah sweetly whimpered about how good Jerome’s kisses and touches made him feel. “We’ll have to make up for lost time someday.”

Once Jerome was a star. Once Jerome had more power. Once Jerome could steal Jeremiah away and keep him, making sure he could never run and hide again. He’d tie him up if he had to, anything to make him stay put where he belonged. With Jerome, always. 

His hands work between them, undoing buttons and zippers and pulling down fabric. Jeremiah’s struggles are feeble motions, hardly worth bringing the knife out again for, like he just wants to tell himself later that he did try to put a stop to things even if he didn’t try very hard. 

He’s melting, Jerome knows he is, and that’s just another sign that this was always meant to happen.

His cock brushes against Jeremiah’s, and it’s enough to make his breath catch. 

Jerome looks down between them, flushed tips and dripping slits, hard because of each other, finally touching after so many years of heatedly wishing for it. He’s in control, he could make Jeremiah do anything, he could force him to his knees and make him suck Jerome’s cock as an act of absolution for Jeremiah’s sins. He’d thought about it many times; the sight and sound and feeling of Jeremiah gagging on his dick, but he can’t bear to be too rough in this moment, their first time together.

Jeremiah needs to know that Jerome can be nice, even when he doesn’t deserve it. Jeremiah needs to remember that Jerome can make him feel good.

He wraps a hand around them both, instead.

Jeremiah cries out, so deliciously sensitive, and Jerome strokes them together, wanting to hear even more of his twin’s sexy noises. It’s quick, almost brutal; he’s not patient, he doesn’t have time. Jeremiah’s hands flutter beside him, as if trying to grip the wall, but it only takes a few fingers sliding over his drooling slit to make his hands reach out where they ought to. One winds tightly in Jerome’s hair, the other curls around the back of Jerome’s neck.

“Jerome.” His voice cracks, tears continuing to drip from his eyes to run down his flushed face. Jerome leans in to drag his tongue against a tear-track and Jeremiah gasps and shudders. “Jerome.”

“I’m making you feel good, aren’t I, Miah?” Jerome rasps, grinding against him, fisting a hand in Jeremiah’s hair again, pressing stinging kisses against his lips as he winds them both up tight. “Tell me how good you feel, tell me how much you want me, tell me everything.”

“Jerome, please,” Jeremiah presses closer to him, shaking, kissing Jerome’s mouth in that seemingly innocent, clumsy way of his. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Jerome grits out. “Tell me, tell me, _tell me_.” 

“Jerome, you—” His breath catches on a sob. He leans against the tugging of Jerome’s hand in his hair to nuzzle his burning face against Jerome’s cheek, an act that feels so affectionate that Jerome is almost left reeling. “You’re making me feel so good.” His voice is soft, breaking. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” Jerome promises. He won’t ever stop. He’s just getting started.

Jeremiah whines and presses closer to him, trembling like a little boy crying and seeking comfort. Trembling like Jerome had when he’d realized that Jeremiah was gone. Jerome fists his hand tighter in Jeremiah’s hair and wrenches his head back to watch him fall apart. 

Jeremiah gasps and whimpers and—maybe because of the additional pain, maybe because of the buildup; Jerome would have plenty of time to figure it all out someday—starts to cum, slicking up Jerome’s hand and crying his name like a plea. Watching him shatter is enough to make Jerome’s own orgasm roll over him like a violent, long-awaited wave.

He fists their cocks and milks them dry until it starts to become too much and Jeremiah’s cries of his name become wordless and distressed. Jerome’s grip slows and lightens, then, before his hand drops away completely.

Reverent and adoring, he kisses Jeremiah’s wet cheeks while wiping his cum-slick hand on Jeremiah’s now-crumpled dress shirt. 

He’s almost out of time.

“Jerome.” Jeremiah’s voice is reedy and weak. Jerome almost feels like stealing him away right now, just so that he can hold him close for however long Jeremiah needs until he’s ready to be loved-on again.

But he can’t yet. Not yet.

“I love you, Jeremiah,” he says, ducking in to kiss Jeremiah’s slack mouth as he does up his own pants. He steps away, after, out of Jeremiah’s weakened hands, and looks upon him with satisfaction. Prettily dazed; swollen lips and flushed face, teary eyes and messy hair, soft spent dick and both of their cum smeared on his clothes. A walking-talking wet-dream. Jerome’s precious little brother who he’s always loved more than anyone else. 

Jerome will make even more of a mess out of him, next time. But for now, he has to go.

“I’ll see you again soon,” he promises as he begins to move further away.

Jerome won’t leave him behind, next time.

“Don’t hide from me again, Miah. When I start looking for you, come to me.”

Jeremiah, trembling and breathing so heavily that he can’t seem to speak, barely manages a tight nod.

And Jerome feels a genuine smile pull at his lips.


End file.
